


At the End of the World (or the Last Thing I See)

by agentmarvel



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Archangels are dicks, Death!Reader, F/F, F/M, Famine!Bucky, Four Horsemen!au, Graphic descriptions, Horror Elements, M/M, Minor Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Multi, Multiple Pairings, Multiple Partners, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PAY ATTENTION TO THE WARNINGS IN THE CHAPTER NOTES!!!!!!!, POV Multiple, POV Second Person, POV Third Person, Past Sharon Carter/Steve Rogers, Pestilence!Natasha, Seven Deadly Sins, Slight Stephen Strange/Reader, Tony Stark is a weird therapist, War!Steve, abuse of dialogue, and abuse of italics tbh, eventually nsfw, mixed mythology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:21:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22236253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentmarvel/pseuds/agentmarvel
Summary: Four Horsemen au -The four of them had been together for centuries, perhaps even millennia. Everything they'd ever done had been for each other, consequences be damned.But this world had rules.When the High Council decides to punish the Horsemen for their crimes, their future takes a dangerous turn towards uncertainty. Will they find themselves? Will they find each other? Will they ever be able to return home?Or will they stay and destroy everything the Council holds dear?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov/Reader, Natasha Romanov/Reader, Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 39
Kudos: 67





	1. did you come to stare or wash away the blood?

**Author's Note:**

> After a very long mental health break, I'm slowly easing myself back into writing. This piece has been in my WIP list for almost two years, and I'm finally happy enough with it to release it.
> 
> This will have multiple perspectives. It will make a transition to being 2nd person POV when reader is re-introduced.

“The Book of Revelation is the strangest book in the Bible,

and the most controversial. Instead of stories and moral teaching,

it offers only visions - dreams and nightmares, the Four

Horsemen of the Apocalypse, earthquakes, plagues and war.”

\- Elaine Pagels

* * *

_Helsinki, Finland – 1697_

The summer of 1695 had been one of the worst on record. Rain fell almost constantly for months, flooding the low-laying countryside and destroying crops. Without fruitful crops, the territory experienced a shortage of seeds to be sown in the fall. And when autumn arrived with an early frost, crops that could’ve survived were killed.

Progressively, conditions worsened. It continued to get colder, and people began to die. Starvation claimed the lives of hundreds of citizens at a time. Orphans on the streets and the elderly succumbed first, followed shortly by the impoverished. And by summer’s end in 1696, even nobles were desperate and destitute, reduced to becoming those they once looked down upon.

Famine fully seized the Swedish Empire by August of 1696, and by October, the death rate had climbed exponentially higher. But because of the frozen climate, they were unable to properly bury their deceased. The dead remained stacked in the streets until the spring thaw, and beneath the snow, more corpses were added to the count. Over the course of two years, nearly a quarter million were killed.

If one were to ask the survivors, no one would remember the young man.

Every spring on the same day, a young man rode through the city of Helsinki on a black horse. The hood of his robe remained atop his head, shielding his face from the dwindling survivors on the streets. The soft cotton draped over him protected him from direct sunlight. In his condition, that would do more harm than good.

Always, he remained a sickly ashen shade all over, the only exception being his red-rimmed and irritated eyes. His skin clung to bone like a shy child to her mother’s dress. Shadows further discolored his already pallid flesh, creating sharp lines and distorting his features in such a manner that he almost looked skeletal. The cut of his cheekbones mirrored hand-cut marble, razor sharp, and his jaw line was a perfect match from edge to edge. Even the cleft of his chin was precise. His pale blue eyes appeared a bit sunken in, a stark contrast to his full, colorless lips. They were always pressed into a firm line. Only fitting to blend in, right?

Because he remained so inconspicuous, most would pay him no mind under the assumption that he was just passing through, but the truth behind his visit was never so simple as travelling.

If only he could be so kind.

Wherever the man went, catastrophe ensued. Starvation, epidemic, and malnourishment followed him throughout the world, sowing chaos into the crops he passed by. With nothing more than a thought, he could plant something poisonous beneath the soil, destroying every effort made for men to feed their families.

He paid his visits every so often as a gift. The torment of humanity presented a rather appeasing endowment to his lovers.

To his beloved War came the blood in the gutters, being washed away with the rain. Men would fight, maim, _kill_ for food. It was never enough to feed the entire family, but perhaps just enough to feed one’s starving children. It quickly became a rather violent affair, and he knew how much War enjoyed the spectacle.

To his darling Pestilence came the flies as they feasted upon the ill and the weak. Once the starvation began, people were easily susceptible to epidemic. Open wounds and necrosis provided ample opportunity for the flies to lay their eggs. In no time, maggots made homes inside of people, and he knew how much she loved her creatures, especially watching as they wiggled beneath flesh.

And to his dear, sweet Death came the ceaseless, symphonic sobs of those left behind as they buried those they once held close. Many souls had been lost, though the exact tally was still undetermined. Not all had crossed over yet, but he knew how keen she was on donning a new gown for a mass funeral, and he harbored a rousing enthusiasm for being the one to fasten the buttons along her spine.

Oh, how he adored them. They made his work worth more than all the gold in the world because their happiness was something he found invaluable. Nothing on land, on sea, or in the sky meant more.

*****

_Marseille, France – 1720_

The city streets were filled with absolute pandemonium. Bubonic plague had breached the country’s border, and everything was going to Hell in a hand basket. A passenger on a merchant ship, the _Grand-Saint-Antoine_ , was the first infected. From there, it spread like wildfire through the ship’s crew and medical personnel. Port officials tried to quarantine the ship, but the demand for the on-board textiles forced them to call it off.

People began to fall ill quite rapidly. Fever, seizures, and gangrene affected most, but as time passed, symptoms increased. Extreme fatigue was often accompanied by delirium and hematemesis. The infected lymph nodes in some even became necrotic, bacteria eating away at the once living flesh.

It was single-handedly one of the worst disasters in French history, and no one would contest that.

But if one were to ask those whom had been present, they wouldn’t recall the woman.

A fortnight prior to the ship’s arrival, a woman rode through town on a white horse. Vibrant waves of red hair tumbled over her shoulders, peeking out the edges of her hood. The length of the black cloak disguised her shapely figure, keeping her as innocuous as possible until her work had been completed.

If she removed her cover, she’d bear a striking resemblance to those who’d fallen. Her skin rivaled the finest porcelain, both in tone and texture. There was only one things breaking up the near monotony of her colorless skin: freckles. They blanketed her flesh like the stars in the sky. No rhyme or reason, but still a god damn wonder.

The edges of her eyes were irritated and swollen, though that didn’t much effect on the left. It had long since clouded over with cataracts, effectively blinding her on one side. The tip of her nose curved upward just slightly, and its hue matched the angry shade of pink lining her eyes. Her full lips wore a constant smirk, rendering her incapable of hiding her mirth in the face of her mischief.

It brought her the purest form of joy to watch humanity suffer. Their misfortune brought about so many smiles for those whom she held dearest.

Death truly loved the additions to her collection. For centuries on end, she’d received various souvenirs from the newest series of tragedies, often something small from the deceased. Typically, she’d bring jewelry, considering it was a frequent find. Each trinket added to her collection earned a kind, loving kiss, and if there actually were a God, Lady Pestilence would thank them daily for that. In her absence, she craved nothing more than the sweet kiss of Death, and to be greeted with such upon her arrival home was more than enough to fill that space in her chest.

War, too, had a proclivity for presents. From each plague she set forth, she’d return with blood. Each sample was contained in a small glass vial and stored in a solid oak box. He’d amassed quite a collection over the centuries. In return, he would give her a wide smile of appreciation. Earning such proved to be quite the feat with such a stoic soul. That was a side to him that rarely made an appearance, and to be blessed with that sight would’ve made her heart race if she had one.

And Famine, the beautiful creature, greatly appreciated the gift of bones she’d bring home. The rats in the filthy sewers would often be so kind as to pick them clean of disease-ridden flesh for her, and those bones would be stored in her favored velvet pouch until she was able to deliver them to him. As a reward, she’d get to see a tinge of pink creep across his ashen cheeks. To have that hint of color on his skeletal features was well worth tolerating the horrid stench below ground.

While she enjoyed her craft immensely, every fiber of her being was dedicated in its entirety to pleasing them. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for them. They’re the only thing she’s ever loved.

*****

_London, England – 1889_

Terror flooded the alleyways. Even the most rational passerbys held their breath crossing the openings amongst the cobblestones for fear of what may await them. Someone was lurking about in the shadows, racking up quite the body count, and the people of London were wise to be so worried.

Some were less wary, convinced those preyed upon were female prostitutes only and they were safe. But safety proved to be a mere illusion. No one was off limits. The link between victims was nothing more than coincidence, and anyone who believed otherwise was a damned fool.

It seemed a tragic way to go, really. Most victims seemed to have escaped momentarily, and people found it absolutely nauseating to think of these unfortunate souls running down the street in the dark trying to hold their intestines inside their abdomens. Luckily, mercy was only another slash away. They were playthings that quickly became dull and disposable.

By December, nearly two years after the killings began; the body count had risen to no less than eight. It was popular speculation that there were others before that had yet to be found. But if they _were_ found, there would be no doubts as to who was responsible. The culprit was methodical, always cutting the throat and disemboweling afterwards. Jack the Ripper, they named him. Except he was a she, and she didn’t particularly like that name.

If one inquired as to her presence, no one would recall seeing her.

The evening before the first murder, a young woman rode into town on a pale, almost corpse-like horse. For the moment, her hair had been black, pulled back beneath the hood of her dark robe. Consistency bored her, therefore her appearance changed like the tide. She could alter her age or gender if she so desired, even rearrange her bones be taller or shorter. Hair, eye, and skin color rarely stayed the same for more than a day unless it was a look she was particularly fond of.

She was delightfully pleasant, despite the harsh connotations her name carried. If the underworld had sunshine, she would certainly be the embodiment of it. Even War, the cranky old bastard, would admit that she never failed to brighten his days. It had become routine for her to try to bring a bit of cheer into their home, and she genuinely loved their reactions when she came home with new decorations.

For her sweet, sweet Pestilence, she’d bring a collection of colorful flowers from both the ill- and well-tended graves in various states of decay. They looked positively lovely on the table beside the bed the four of them shared, and Pestilence had quite the eye for arrangements. No surprise, considering her the consequence of her craft resulted in an array of shades: blood red, bile green, jaundice yellow, cyanotic blue, just to name a few.

For her treasured Famine, she brought scraps of damaged and rotting casket wood. He had a love for creating, and that happened to be his medium of choice. The others sometimes teased him for taking up such a menial human task, but she found it endearing that he opted to use those wondrous hands of his to craft such beautiful things.

And lastly, her dearest War would receive the fallen feathers of a crow and blossoms from a blackthorn hedge. The two would venture to the garden and collect a basket of witch-hazel, leaves from her nightshade plant, and white baneberries. In a rare moment of domesticity, they’d work together in the kitchen to blend their finds together, creating a salve to soothe the savage wounds the man would return home with after inciting a skirmish.

She supposed her gifts unintentionally served a mildly selfish purpose. That was never her intention, however. Each waking moment was dedicated entirely to her work and the three beings she shared a home with. Their joy was worth whatever cost it was to the world, and that wasn’t even to the end of her will’s extent.

*****

_Sarajevo, Bosnia – 1914_

The ground was littered with bullet-riddled bodies. Shell casings framed them like a chalk outline. There weren’t enough ground medics by half to keep up with the hail of gunfire and less so that were equipped for bombings and potential nuclear strikes. Men wore dirt and the blood of friends and enemies alike as a mask, shielding their fear from those left standing. A heavy scent of copper and gunpowder lingered in the air as a violent reminder to the damage differing opinions can do.

By sea, land, and air came attacks from both sides. Clarity bloomed from the battlegrounds, true colors coming through and lines being drawn. One half called it expurgating while the other called it genocide. It was a heinous and uncouth affair, ruthless and callous. But despite all the bloodshed, it was necessary.

If one so questioned, no one would recall seeing the man.

For many years prior, this man would ride through various cities on a rust-red horse, inciting incidents that would lead to conflict. He knew where the world was headed prior to World War I, and he knew he shouldn’t choose sides. But the cowardice of assassination was unacceptable. It was wholly appalling, and while the carnage on its own would’ve been more than enough to appease him, this was different. Something had to be done. If that meant folding the world in upon itself, then so be it.

He was conventionally attractive by mortal standards. His stature was strong and sturdy, tall and muscular. Sharp blue eyes lent a hand to his no-nonsense facial structure and its permanent expression of annoyance. He had a bend in the bridge of his nose from not resetting a break correctly, but it’s hardly noticeable and fits well with his rugged good looks. One look would tell anyone that he’s an arrogant son of a bitch, and then tended to dissuade other from speaking to him. Perhaps that’s why he no longer had any qualms about parting ways with his cloak. It wasn’t necessary to hide beneath his hood anymore.

Or perhaps it was just the way their cold fingers felt against his overheating flesh that made him feel invincible.

For Death, his precious girl, he retrieved the bullet from the first kill shot. It was permanently stained red with fresh spilt blood, but that was of no consequence. She’d always lean up on her toes to kiss him sweetly and sincerely, and he’d always chase her lips when she pulled away. Awful little tease, that one, but he loved her so.

The first sown seed of the harvest season was his gift to his charming Famine. He’d dig it from the soil with a stolen trowel, sure to incite a gruesome argument between neighbors. Famine was so frail in his regular state; it only felt right to deliver sustenance. He was by no means _actually_ as ill as he appeared, but War felt compelled. There was no other way to get what he craved so terribly: the feeling of Famine’s teeth grazing the calloused flesh of his jaw.

Pestilence absolutely adored her treasures as well. Following each adventure, he’d bring home a jar of water. To the untrained eye, it would appear to be just that, but she’d know. The second her long, lithe fingers touched the glass, she’d know. Beautiful little parasites, disease-ridden and toxic. The world would eradicate her recent Typhoid outbreak after some time had passed, and she loved the opportunity to create something new. The incentive of feeling of her razor-sharp nails digging into his scarred back felt almost as good as watching her toil with the next disaster.

For such a brash, hardened creature, he sure harbored a soft spot for those three. He couldn’t imagine any sort of existence without them by his side.

*****

It was a quiet, lazy Sunday, the day they came.

War had busied himself with crafting a new sword in the front room. His hemlock tea sat all but abandoned on the shelf while he sharpened the blade.

Pestilence had spent her morning in the garden, planting new sprigs for Death. She’d found wild Foxglove growing in the pasture behind the carriage house and wanted to surprise her beloved.

Death and Famine took up residence in the library for the day. They’d curled up together in an oversized armchair, opting the share a book, rather than read their own.

But suddenly, the quiet wasn’t so quiet anymore.

Weapons drawn upon entry, they stormed the house, flooding through the doors and windows like a swarm of locusts. The intrusion was a total blindside, leaving no time to think or plan, only to act.

War was mere feet from the front door. He was the first to react. He threw everything within his reach at the intruders, including his current project and the mahogany coffee table. But the soldiers grouped in and continued to advance, fending off his attacks. They moved strategically around the edges of the room, forcing him to essentially corner himself. He was the only thing that stood between the hoard and the stairs case, up which they’d be sure to find his family.

He meant to warn the others. Truly, he did. But the moment he saw his darling Pestilence, the heart he didn’t have stopped. It took six guards to restrain her, a burlap sack over her head, chains binding her wrists behind her back. She fought back every step of the way, resisting every forced movement. It was no secret that she was more than capable to taking care of herself, but the sight of her struggle made him see red. He wouldn’t let them take her, not if he could help it.

War reeled back, channeling all his energy into his leg as he kicked out against the nearest guard’s chest. Like a row of dominos, a handful collided and dropped. However, for each that went down, another joined the fray. He was vastly out-numbered, at least ten-to-one. Not the best odds, but he’d survived worse.

“You get your filthy god damn hands off of her!” he roared, smashing together two heads. He fought so hard to make his way through the army, but all the new hands managed to hold him back just long enough for Pestilence to be practically dragged out. Through a tear in the curtain, he felt helpless as he watched them shove her roughly into the back of a long, boxy vehicle. The sight fueled his rage, but in doing so caused a slight pause. A pause long enough for him to be overpowered.

The iron clasps clamped down on his limbs. The same bag went over his head. But he was forced, alone, into a different vehicle.

_Run, hide. Please. They’re coming._

Death and Famine were not missed by the commotion. They both heard War’s message as clearly as if he’d been right in front of them. Famine dropped his book immediately, eyes frantic as they fell upon Death. He cradled her sweet face in his hands, running a thumb across her cheek. The vague sound of boots pounding against the hardwood told him they were much closer than he’d hoped.

“Run,” he whispered to her. “You run as far and as fast as you can. I’ll buy you as much time as possible, my love.”

She shook her head, opening her mouth to protest, but he wouldn’t hear it. He placed the most delicate kiss on her forehead and shoved her towards the window.

“Go. Now.”

Once more, Death shook her head, staring Famine down with an obstinacy he’d never known.

“I’m not leaving you,” she stated coldly, taking a step towards him. “We stand together.”

In the end, he relented to her, but it wouldn’t be enough. Their capture would be just as difficult and violent as the others, and they’d be removed in the same fashion: in separate vehicles, meant to be isolated from the others.

It was truly their worst fear coming to fruition.

But this world had laws, and those four, well… They were on the wrong side of them.

*****  
  


Famine watched the door, wide-eyed and fearful, though he’d never admit it. The Royal Council was in deliberation. His little family had been charged with a severe array of crimes against humanity, and this was meant to serve as a trial of sorts. The Council called it “Gathering of Judgment”. What the council seemed to forget was that they had no authority over them. His family is a separate entity, governed by an entirely different set of laws and rules. They lie outside of the Council’s _jurisdiction_ , so to speak.

But that didn’t actually quell the fear in his gut. Even if they’re not subject to the High Court’s ruling, they can still enforce their punishments. It could take some time for his superiors to get wind of the situation, and by the time they do, it could be too late.

 _You’re white as a sheet, darling._ Death practically cooed in his ear, though she hadn’t made a single sound. _What’s going on in that magnificent mind of yours?_

 _Goodness, you’re far more pale than usual. Are you feeling alright?_ He glanced at Pestilence, who was grinning like the cat who ate the canary. Given the gravity of their predicament, it warmed him a bit on the inside to know she was still just as keen on razzing him.

 _Troublesome little things, aren’t you?_ Famine paused, watching the smiles grow. Mischief lined their mouth, mirth in their eyes.

“You three are absolutely insufferable,” War grunted, rolling his eyes.

“And yet, you complain about every moment you spend away,” Death quipped back with a straight face. There’s an unspoken challenge in her tone, and her raised eyebrow further asserted such.

War was on the verge of a retort when the door opened.

Seven figures, each robed in pure silk, entered in a single-file line. One by one, they took their seats upon granite thrones. The one who sat in the center appeared to take a male form. Gabriel was his name, if memory served correctly. He sat with an ice-cold stare, drumming his fingertips against the stone arm beneath his hand.

The silence screamed in Death’s ears. The Council were worthy adversaries, but they never could quite manage to keep up with her family. If anything, she fretted over the fact that this whole thing was more or less a witch-hunt (a term coined after her fun in Salem). Pettiness seemed to run in the royal family.

“We’ve come to a decision,” Gabriel announced, rising and finally ending the stillness. “You know, we’ve been after you four for quite some time. While we appreciate your… Sadistic attempts to help with the population control issue, the fact of the matter is that your methods are nothing short of an atrocity. Violence begets violence, and that is not how we resolve such issues within the mortal realm.

“If we had reason to believe otherwise, perhaps we’d pursue rehabilitation rather than reprimand, but we’ve agreed that we don’t see you giving up your vile, loathsome ways. That being said, we must assign a punishment befitting of the crime. We take no enjoyment in – “

“Spare us the speech, cretin.” War’s voice was gruff, brash. “I’m bored.”

Gabriel looked to his brother, Raphael, with bewilderment. It was safe to assume he’d never been spoken to in such a matter. Not a man of his stature. Raphael merely shrugged, no affect to his expression. Gabriel turned back, staring War directly in the eye.

“Very well,” he ground out between clenched teeth. “You will be stripped of your powers. Your memories will be erased, and you will be regressed. You will start over from the beginning as a new human, from birth to death. Upon the death of your mortal bodies, we will evaluate your growth as a productive cog in my father’s most efficient machine.”

“You can’t do this,” Pestilence stated defiantly, lifting her chin. “We are not subject to your rules.”

“When you cross into our regions and violate our laws, you’re just as culpable as our own citizens. Even your own superiors cannot refute our will.”

“Bear in mind that this decision was not made lightly,” Michael, who sat to the left of Gabriel, added. “Nor was this decision made unanimously.”

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed at his brother’s declaration, but he continued. “It may take some time to get your minds and bodies in the shape we need them in, considering the centuries of wear on both. But I assure you, it will be done. Shall we begin?”


	2. shotgun sinners, wild-eyed jokers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re-posted because some sections were missing.
> 
> A peek into Natalia's life.

“Then I saw when the Lamb broke one of the seven seals, and I heard one of the  
four living creatures saying as with a voice of thunder, "Come."  
I looked, and behold, a white horse, and he who sat on it had a bow;  
and a crown was given to him, and he went out conquering and to conquer.”

— Revelation 6:1–2

* * *

_St. Petersburg Proper, Russia – Present Day_

Renovations are absolute hell. A necessity for the owner of an ever-progressing business, but a nightmare regardless. She didn’t bat an eye at the cost; it was compulsory. The time it took, however, was a bit more of a strain.

Natalia’s harsh glare travels across the freshly-polished hardwood. It smiles brightly back at her beneath the shine of the new overhead house lights. For only a brief moment, she almost reconsiders her choice. Wood could be easily damaged by not just her girls, but her patrons as well. Alternatively, the layer of padding inserted beneath the new flooring would help cut down on the joint pain her dancers sometimes experienced. Concrete was merciless on those bones. As much as she loves her money, the health and safety of her employees will always take priority.

She’d hire someone to patch the scuffs during the day. Wood looks nicer anyway.

With the whole front room illuminated, Natalia unintentionally spots her next project with ease. A corner of wallpaper is lifting behind the bar. In her head, she can see the space instead covered in violet crushed velvet upholstery. Perhaps with gem-cut glass tufting. Black countertops and maybe a soft grey backsplash. The thought tugs her lips into a half-smile.

_Ukukhetha okuhle._

It sounds like someone was whispering right into her ear, but she knows better. She’s been hearing the voices for as long as she can remember. They don’t sound like her; this one is male, soft, and it always speaks a language she doesn’t comprehend. She isn’t even really sure what language it _is_. But somehow, some way, she always knows what it was saying.

_Good choice._

When she was smaller, her mother had insisted it was her father’s voice. That he would always walk beside her, guide her, advise her. But Natalia remembers his voice. Vaguely, since she was so young when he passed, but remembers nonetheless. It _definitely_ isn’t him…

Strangely, though, the voice strengthens her resolve to pursue the image in her mind. It feels good to know that someone else approves of her eye for design, even if that someone else occupies her own brain.

With a well-manicured finger, she types up a short text to her favorite contractor.

**To: Barton the Builder**

**Got a new project for you. Triple your rush rate if you can complete by the end of the week. ; )**

Her phone chirps within minutes, accompanied by his reply.

**From: Barton the Builder**

**Another one? Jesus, Nat. Give my guys a break! : P Triple plus one and we’ll have it done by Wednesday.**

“Deal,” she murmurs out loud as she taps out a quick response. Locking her screen, she slips her phone into the back pocket of her jeans. As much as she’d enjoy bantering with Clint all day, Natalia has a business the run. A fingertip reaches up to brush a strand of coppery hair from her face as she heads for the back room.

Through the tangled maze of hallways, she weaves with the grace of a delicate spider. She remains close to the walls, moving with design and purpose. Her long legs move fluidly in a cadence all their own. The small smile on her lips is meant to charm and disarm, lulling her next victim into a false sense of security.

Venom sat atip her tongue, waiting patiently for the first to step out of line. The arch of her brow begs for a reason to sink her finely-sharpened fangs into someone who genuinely deserves it. Her stiletto heels clicking against the floor sound like a threat of impending death with no antidote. It fuels the fire raging in her chest, though her demeanor never once betrays her intent.

The decorum of her discipline is enough to make anyone feel as if they’d been wrapped in silk, lovingly cradled for only a brief moment before having their head viciously torn from their body.

And boy, are those men in some serious trouble.

Her security team had made a mistake. A huge mistake that endangered one of her girls. A huge fucking mistake that was inexcusable and entirely preventable

As she opens the door to the office, the room goes silent. Her smirk doesn’t falter.

Her victim had been chosen, and nothing could possibly save them from her wrath.

“Hello, boys. Let’s have a chat, shall we?”

*****

Wednesdays are always a surprise.

Clint’s crew had arrived at the crack of dawn to finish construction on the bar, catching Natalia right after her workout. Then the liquor delivery arrived three hours ahead of schedule, which meant she had to unload them on the patron’s tables to catalog. Then her scheduled bartender for the night called out sick, and her back-up wasn’t responding to her texts.

And if that wasn’t enough on its own, she was still in the process of trying to hire a new pair for her security team.

And if THAT wasn’t enough altogether, she also still had to arrange a surprise of her own.

Every Wednesday, she got to choose the songs and costumes for her dancers. It was something the girls were very vocal about looking forward to every week. Something about it seemed to relieve a slight hint of stress for them. Even though Natalia is truly always under the gun, she’d do anything in her power to help. Besides, that was pretty much the only day she got to spend some time with her sister.

Natalia came from a large family. Her parents were unable to produce children of their own. Barren nether region wasteland, as her mother called it. So, they instead opted to adopt. Well, perhaps collect would be a better term. They were all so different from each other. If they weren’t planning on a baseball team or a small army, why else would they want nine children so close in age?

When Yelena, the baby of the family, turned 18, she’d come to Natalia asking for a job. She wanted something steady that worked around her class schedule, and she was willing to put in the hard work to earn the money to pay her way through university. SPbSU had a phenomenal astrophysics program, and Yelena was practically a child prodigy. She’d do so well, and Nat knew that. She could not, _would not_ , turn her down.

Besides, Yelena wasn’t asking for a hand-out like half the other siblings did when the club began to gain traction. That gesture in its entirety garnered far more favor than anything else.

“I think we’re just about done here.” Clint is hovering on the other side of the table when Natalia looks up from her inventory list. He cracks a crooked little smile and nods his head back, gesturing the completed bar.

“Perfection, as always,” she comments, a small smirk appearing on her lips. “What do I owe you?”

Clint shrugs.

“Regular rush rate for six hours.”

“I offered triple plus one, remember?”

He chuckles and shakes his head.

“How about regular rush and you let me take you to dinner?” he offers, lopsided grin growing a little wider. Nat doesn’t hesitate to counter.

“Double rush, and I’ll cook for you.” Her offer seems to catch him off-guard. He stares at her for a moment before playfully tapping his chin like he _actually_ needs to think about it.

“Regular plus one, and I’ll bring dessert. Final offer.”

“Can I tip?”

“For the work or the dessert?”

“Both.”

Clint huffs out a laugh before nodding.

“Yeah, I think we can make that work.”

Natalia feels the corners of her mouth curl up just a little further as she grabs the till bag from the table. She shuffles through the bills, straightening them into a neat stack before handing them to Clint. He won’t count it in front of her, she knows that. That’s why she actually does pay him double. Plus one for good measure.

He thanks her and asks if she has anything more lined up that he needs to plan for.

“Just what I’m gonna make for dinner.”

“I’m sure you’ll text me when you’ve got a free night?” She nods. “I’m looking forward to it.”

She returns the sentiment and watches as he takes a few leisurely steps back, waving at her until he damn near trips over a can of sealant. A snort of laughter comes out of her nose at the expression on his face. He goes bright red before remarking, “I totally meant to do that.”

Once he’s out of sight, she lets her smirk grow into a full-blown smile.

*****

The last two weeks were all a blur, days bleeding into each other like a mutual transfusion. Natalia’s been so obscenely busy between interviews, hiring and training, and generally just running her business that she’s had to hold off on her plans with Clint.

That’s a bit of a disappointment for her. She meant it when she said she, too, was looking forward to it. Barton took _months_ to make a move, and now, she can’t help but feel guilty for stalling their plans. It nags at her, pinching her conscience like a swarm of ants. It’s aggravating to say the least.

Natalia grabs her phone. She’s fed up with waiting. She’s sick of putting it off because something came up. Let’s be real here, something will _always_ come up. That’s what happens when you’re a business owner.

No more. She’s taking a night off to have dinner with a great guy whom she is most definitely into.

She’s just about to send Clint a text about having tomorrow night free when her phone buzzes in her hand. New texts are coming in, and they’re from Nadia, her eldest sister. Briefly, she considers reading them, but _no more_ echoes in her head, and she swipes them away for a moment.

**To: Barton the Builder**

**Free around 6 tomorrow?**

Clint replies almost immediately with a resounding “abso-fucking-lutely”, and Nat is stoked.

“Oh, dear sister, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen that look on your face,” Yelena croons, sidling up beside her. The wicked grin she wears promises she knows far more than Natalia thinks she does. Nat can’t help but roll her eyes, still smiling.

“It’s my face, Lena. It always looks like this.”

“No, it always looks like you’re about to stab someone. Now, it looks like you’re about to stab someone, but you’re happy about it.”

Nat doesn’t respond.

“Is it Nadia or Barton?”

“Barton. How did you know about Nadia?”

“Oh, she, uh, texted me this morning?” Yelena isn’t even somewhat convincing, but before Natalia can question it, she’s off like a rocket, tacking a quick note on that she’d see Nat in a few hours.

Weird kid.

But now that she’s squared away her plans with Clint, she can see what it is that Nadia wants. Considering she’s one of the three siblings that Natalia doesn’t constantly wish to strangle, her messages aren’t unwelcome in the slightest.

She taps the conversation, carefully reading and re-reading the messages.

**From: Nadia**

**Time for a vacay, little sister. Yelena says you’re working yourself to death again.**

**You’re taking a break. I’ve already booked your flight, so there’s nothing you can do about it.**

**Pack light. It’s nice and warm in NYC.** **♡**

Well, that’s unexpected. She’s definitely not wrong; Nat’s been busting her ass. But can she spare any length of time from the club? That’s a tough question.

However, Natalia knows it’s not a request. Nadia is not one who’s typically willing to negotiate, especially when it comes to the mental health of her family.

Nat supposes she’d better go find her passport.

*****

Michael waits beside the gate.

His horse whinnies as he climbs down from the saddle, pulling his soft cloak closer around him.

He truly should not be here, he knows, lest his brothers find out. Gabriel would flay him in a single breath if he knew what Michael has been up to, but Michael simply refuses to stand for the injustices Gabriel imposes. Even at the risk of committing imperial treason, he must make this right.

The Keeper peers out from the darkness, initially appearing as a pair of red eyes, burning bright. Michael steels his nerves and offers his hand. Within his outstretched palm is a pair of coins. The Keeper seems pleased by this, taking a step forward from the shadows.

It’s a terrifying sight when he comes forth. The body is skeletal with limbs too long and gangly to have ever been human. Its head is bulbous and oversized. The lower jaw hangs at an angle that makes Michael’s own ache. It appears broken and out of place, and it does not move when the Keeper speaks.

“To what do we owe the pleasure, Michael?” it asks in a sing-song tune. “Not often we’re graced with the presence of _royalty_.” The disgust it spits on the final word nearly unnerves him, but he keeps his head up.

“I wish to speak with two of your Sins, Lust and Greed. I seek information from them.”

“And you bring me payment for summoning them?”

Michael nods and says, “Yes. Two coins now, two when we’re finished.”

The Keeper hums thoughtfully for a moment.

“Awfully wise of you, Michael. I see you’re learning to appreciate the unholier ways of obtaining what you seek.”

It takes the coins from his hand, and turns away briefly to hide them in the black. Everything falls silent, and Michael must further wait.

Before long, he hears footsteps echoing from the cave. Two pairs of feet make their way up the path, and the Keeper returns, reaching his elongated, bony fingers through the fence.

“They’ve come, royal. I require the rest of my reward now.”

Bitterly, Michael withdraws the additional coins and hands them over. In a cloud of soot, the Keeper disappears just as the two Sins approach the gate.

They’re hand-in-hand, both still wearing their human forms. Greed’s taken up residence in a woman’s body, and she kindly smiles at Michael as the man beside her, Lust, gives him a nod of acknowledgment.

“Michael.” Lust’s voice matches his skin suit, and Michael is admittedly very impressed. He could never pull that look off.

“Lust, Greed,” he nodded to each respectively, placing his hands in the pockets of his cloak. “I’ve come to check on progress. Do you have news?”

Greed nods, smiling a bit wider, wilder.

“She still believes I’m a contractor,” Lust chuckles. “Hasn’t recognized either of us yet. Doesn't even realize her own sister is her closest ally.”

“But we have her on the path to reunite with War,” Greed adds. “He wasn't easy to find, but the second she sees him, she will remember, and the first seal will be broken.”


	3. give 'em hell, kid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to check in with Steve!
> 
> !!!!!WARNING!!!!!  
> This chapter discusses homicide, specifically involving children. If this is something that makes you uncomfortable, please feel free to skip the section.

_“When He broke the second seal, I heard the second living creature  
saying, "Come." And another, a red horse, went out;  
and to him who sat on it, it was granted to take peace from the earth,  
and that men would slay one another; and a great sword was given to him.”_

_\- Revelation 6:3-4_

* * *

_Brooklyn, New York, United States of America – Present Day_

Steve drums his fingers against the countertop. As always, he is markedly impatient. The small shop beneath his loft was running a bit behind today, so he’s been waiting nearly ten minutes for a simple large black coffee.

Irritation etches itself into his features. His russet brows furrow while his mouth remains pressed into a firm line. Had he not been so busy passively trying to draw the barista’s attention, he would’ve folded his arms across his chest to further illustrate his displeasure. Not the wisest choice if he intends to keep his jacket wrinkle-free, but he’s going to be late if these dolts can’t get their shit together.

He glances down at his watch, noting that it’s already 7:00, and he has twenty minutes to make it from 6th to his office on 14th Avenue. The first of his clients for the day should be in at 8:00 sharp, and he can NOT be late. The poor gal is facing four counts of first degree murder, for crying out loud.

Finally, the barista manages to make eye contact with Steve, and he cocks an eyebrow. She gives him a kind smile as she wipes her hands on a towel. Her fingers curve around the standard paper cup as she secures the lid and wipes the side. She sets the drink in front of Steve.

“So sorry ‘bout the wait, sir. Have a great day, alright?”

Steve wants nothing more than to roll his eyes or cut back with some sort of cruel quip, but he doesn’t have time for that. He’s already four minutes behind schedule. A hushed, insincere thanks gets muttered as he snatches the cup from the counter and hurriedly walks out.

It isn’t uncommon for him to be so intolerant of others. People as a whole are so lackadaisical in their mundane day-to-day actions, and Steve is just the opposite. He has a rigid schedule and harbors an ever-growing disdain for anyone who dared disrupt or disrespect it.

Minutes tick by as Steve weaves his way through traffic. His fingers resume their incessant tapping, this time against the steering wheel of his custom Audi R8. To an extent, he’s still on the verge of exasperation until a voice in his head tells him “ _relajarse_ ”… _Relax_. It’s not his voice, but he’d grown use to the kind sound of her in his ear. It isn’t in a language he speaks fluently, but from the little Spanish he knows, it’s easy enough to make out. Even when it’s not, he always knows what she was saying.

She’s not the only one he hears, but she’s the most frequent.

He decides to take the word of advice, allowing himself to begin vaguely humming along to the tune playing on the radio. The windows are tinted darker than legally permissible, but that’s of no consequence to him. It just assures that no one would see him actually enjoying himself as the beat catches up with him, and he transitions into singing along.

When he walks into his office, he feels calmer than he has in months. There could’ve even been a small smile on his face. It won’t last long, but he knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Steve drops his briefcase beside his desk and immerses himself in catching up on Mrs. Danvers’ file. Well, he tries to. In all fairness, he really _does_ try. But the looming figure in his doorway less than five minutes in proves to be quite the distraction.

“Mornin’, pretty boy. How’d that canary taste, huh?”

It’s been a long time since Steve has rolled his eyes _that_ hard. He peers up through his thick fan of eyelashes, only to be met with the mischievous brown eyes of his business partner, Sam. He wears a wide, mocking grin and a dark blue three-piece suit. Typical.

Steve and Sam had been friends for a long time. They met in grade school and became the most insufferable pair. Sam was the only person who could seem to stomach how arrogant and impetuous Steve was, and Steve was the only one to tolerate Sam’s awful jokes and crude inferences. For just over two decades, they’d been putting up with each other’s shit, even when no one else would.

“No canary, Sam. Just having a good morning.”

*****

Trial preparation isn’t something Steve enjoys. Researching case law, pulling exhibits, writing his arguments, lining up his witnesses just so, it’s all _so_ time consuming. But Steve wasn’t necessarily one to gamble on a case. He has more than enough confidence in his work to take on tough matters. Steve Rogers doesn’t lose.

He’s elbow-deep in paperwork when Sam leaves for the night. The previous morning’s meeting with Mrs. Danvers yielded a bit of information that Steve is still particularly unenthused with. News came in that the prosecution was decidedly seeking life imprisonment without the possibility of parole. Steve considers it a small, fruitless victory that the state of New York abolished the death penalty in 2007. If that were an option, though, he’s certain they’d have pursued it with a violent voracity.

Admittedly, this case is one of very few that has ever made Steve sweat a little. There’s mounting evidence that definitely doesn’t cast his client in the most favorable of lights. Yet, somehow, he still doesn’t believe she’s capable of murdering her family, be it in cold blood or in a fit of rage. She was found to be completely and totally mentally and emotionally sound in her psych eval, aside from the obvious trauma of losing her entire family in such a horrific manner.

Somehow, Steve feels in his gut as if he understands what that feels like. But he doesn’t quite understand _why_ he feels that way. Both of his parents are still alive, his grandparents still alive; he’s an only child… So how is he able to empathize so fluidly with such a tragedy?

Maybe it’s because of the divorce. That whole thing was sort of a loss of family. But by the time he filed the complaint, he and Sharon were practically strangers just living in the same home. She’d been clear how much she’d grown to resent him over the years, and he’d been clear it was a mutual feeling. Their divorce was quick and amicable, though. No heartbreak involved. So, in comparison, there _was_ no comparison.

But regardless of _why_ he feels the way he does, he needs to focus. Mrs. Danvers’ jury trial is in a week, and he needs to be far more prepared for it than he is.

Steve settles back into his mountains of paperwork, pouring over every word with intense scrutiny. Nothing he’s come across yet is helpful, but he has to find something that will exonerate his client. There’s got to be something. There’s always something.

It’s nearly three hours later that he finds a pinch of hope.

He finds it in an autopsy report for the oldest child, under the toxicology screening. Parts of the sentence are obscured by the redaction of the above line, but he can make it out clearly enough.

“Opioids not prescribed to either parent within the last decade,” he reads directly from the report, out loud. It brings the faintest grin to his lips.

He digs through his piles to find the coroner’s reports on the other children. One by one, he finds them all. The three younger children all match the oldest: opioids in their bloodstreams. Not quite enough to kill them, save for the youngest.

That’s why they were later smothered.

Three different causes of death amongst five decedents. That’s awfully peculiar for a woman who supposedly “planned meticulously for weeks to murder her family”. (That’s right DA Rhodes, go fuck yourself.)

She had no motive, that’s been made clear from the get go. But now Steve can plant the seeds of doubt, prove she didn’t have quite all means. No jury would, in good conscience, convict her based on opportunity alone.

It feels like a massive stroke of luck, and Steve is thrilled.

_Bien hecho, mi amor. Estoy muy orgulloso._

_Well done, my love. I’m so proud._

Her words spread warmth through his chest. He basks in it for a few moments, smiling to himself. Steve all but pats himself on the back until a thought occurs that sours his high immediately.

He may have found a way to convince the court that Mrs. Danvers couldn’t have killed her children, but would they believe she didn’t kill her husband?

Frantically, Steve resumes his search through the piles, this time looking for the one report he initially glossed over. How could he have been so stupid? That report is absolutely paramount. No one will believe she didn’t harm the children if they still think she murdered her husband. God fucking damn it! How, Steve? How could you be so _fucking_ stupid?

When Steve finishes the first pile without finding the report, he clears it from his desk with his forearm. The pages flutter like butterfly wings as they make their way to the carpet and create a blanket of white beside him. His jaw flexes tightly. He swallows down a frustrated yell and exhales hard through his nose, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Get it together, Rogers,” he growls to himself as he pulls the next pile closer.

As if by pure chance, the report he’s looking for is face down on top, and he begins to comb through it, line by line. He reads and re-reads and reads again. It’s practically burned into his brain by the time he’s done.

He knew Mr. Danvers was bludgeoned, but he didn’t anticipate just how savage the beating really was until he saw the photos. Steve’s seen a lot in his career, but those photos unsettle him greatly. His stomach keeps turning over while he’s trying to decipher the acronyms in the hand-written notes.

Another hour and a ridiculous number of Google searches later, and Steve is no closer to making heads or tails of the notes. It’s frustrating him immensely, but he knows someone who can help. Someone who can talk him through exactly what he’s reading.

Begrudgingly, he digs his phone out from beneath the waves. He really doesn’t want to do this, but he’s run out of other options.

He finds the number in his contacts and hits dial. Part of him is hoping it goes to voicemail, since it’s already nearing 10:00.

_Ring._

Maybe there’s some sort of glossary he can buy. He hadn’t thought in the moment to check Amazon.

_Ring._

Or perhaps he had a contact at Stanford would have something?

_Ring._

On the third ring, she answers, and Steve already hates himself for this. He has to remind himself that she’s a pathologist, and she behaves with the utmost professional decorum, despite being his ex-wife.

“Steven?”

“Sharon, hey. I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, but I’m working on a case and I need your expertise.”

*****

Wrath waits.

He sits in a dark sedan with heavily tinted windows, watching. A rental is a wise plan when one doesn’t want prying eyes to end up with questions. Passerbys would be none the wiser to his intent, and that’s the way he prefers it.

War has yet to leave the office. That’s not unusual when he has large cases. Considering the contention in Mrs. Danvers’ case, it’s a surprise that he ever goes home. His commanding officer hates to lose, which is why he relies so heavily on Wrath’s help, even if he doesn’t yet know it.

For two decades, he’s sat idly by, waiting for War to remember. He’s made efforts here and there to jog his memory, but obviously, all attempts have been in vain.

Reaching out to Greed had been a risk. She was unaware that her pseudo-sister, Nadia, has been residing mere feet from War for over a year, and Wrath only recently became aware of the body Greed had chosen to inhabit all those years ago.

The risk, however, paid off. Pestilence would be so very close soon enough, and the years upon years of work will not have been for naught. No further complications would arise once they remembered.

Speaking of complications, he spies one now.

A tall, leggy blonde strides across the parking lot and Wrath’s mouth falls open.

_Sharon._

“God damn it, Steve,” he mutters as she approaches the office door and knocks. “Now is not the time for distractions.”

Sharon very well could possible destroy _everything_ Wrath’s been working towards.

That stone-cold shrew has been a thorn (pfft, more like an entire damn katana) in his side since the day she met War. He recalls their tumultuous relationship before _and_ after marriage. In particular, he remembers how awful she was to War after the wedding. How she treated him like a doormat, rather than even showing a single shred of human decency. It took all his restraint to internalize his desire to rip her head clean off her shoulders, and sometimes, even that wasn’t enough to quell the rage.

Nevertheless, he always outwardly treated that trust fund snob with the utmost respect, knowing that their farce of a marriage wouldn’t last. Sharon was a phase. A long, agonizing, drawn-out phase, but a phase nonetheless.

Wrath watches like a hawk as War approaches the glass doors and allows her to enter. He shakes his head, cursing under his breath at the man.

“Don’t fuck this up. She’ll be here soon.”

Before he can complain further, his phone buzzes in the cupholder beside him, and he reluctantly looks at it.

**2 Unread Messages**

**Peter: Hey, Sam. Sorry it’s so late, but I forgot my backpack in the office. Can I swing by in the morning to pick it up?**

**Yelena: Michael requested an update. He’s aware that we are close to breaking the first two seals. Who knows, perhaps we’ll end up acquiring a second fallen one. ; )**


	4. like butane on my skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> James' past explained.

_“When He broke the third seal, I heard the third living creature saying,_

_"Come." I looked, and behold, a black horse; and he who sat on it had a pair of_

_scales in his hand. And I heard something like a voice in the center_

_of the four living creatures saying, "A quart of wheat for a denarius, and three_

_quarts of barley for a denarius; but do not damage the oil and the wine.””_

_\- Revelation 6:5–6_

* * *

_Birnin Zana, Wakanda – Present Day_

It’s been a long day, and James is ready to go home. He’s not quite done for the day, yet, though. A full shipment of fresh ingredients just arrived, and he’s got to get it put away before he heads home.

Sweat creeps down his spine, leaving a damp path in its wake. He tosses the last of the freight boxes onto the dolly and closes the door on the loading dock. It takes a bit more effort than he’d like to tip the dolly back and more strength than he’d hoped to hold it up while he wheels it into the kitchen.

When he gets to the pantry area to unload, Shuri, his sister, is sitting atop the counter. She’s swinging her legs and blowing bubbles with her gum. Her earbuds are in, and her eyes are locked on her phone screen.

_Typical teenager._

He grunts as he lets the dolly come to rest once more on the floor. The top box tips forward, and the boxes stacked beneath start to lean away from him as well. Reflexively, he’s only able to grab just one corner of the top box, using the rest of his body to steady the cart.

“Shuri, need a hand over here!” he hollers, only hoping she’s not currently deafening herself with music.

She hops off the counter, landing gracefully on the balls of her feet. She doesn’t look away from her phone for even a second.

“I’m right here, Mr. Barnes. No need to shout at me.”

“Shit, sorry,” he mutters. “Wasn’t sure if you could hear me.”

That warrants a look. She shoves her phone in her pocket and playfully rolls her eyes.

“Rule number one of the kitchen: always be accessible,” Shuri quotes dramatically as she grabs the top two boxes and plops them none too gently on the floor.

The first thing new hires learn here are the rules of the kitchen. When James and his brother opened the restaurant about eight years ago, there were only three rules: always be accessible, always be on time, and hurry, but don’t rush. Now, there are at least ten. Maybe more, but James can’t quite recall all of them. T’Challa, Shuri and his’ brother, has gotten into the habit of adding new rules to the roster when someone makes the rare mistake. It’s usually some poor newbie on their first day.

T’Challa’s kind enough not to call them out in front of everyone, and he doesn’t berate them in private either. He’ll simply tell them that humans are flawed and those errors are lessons in disguise. It’s an opportunity for the company as a whole to learn and grow together. A new rule will unceremoniously be added to the board during the monthly staff meeting, and that’ll be the end of it.

It’s nice to run a business with someone who’s so cordial with the staff. T’Challa has always been a benevolent soul, and James knows that the rest of the company certainly appreciates it. Work is the only place where everyone seems to fit in, James included. After everything he’s been through, that’s a welcome feeling.

Growing up was tough on James Barnes. He was raised in the Wakandan foster system, which had its ups and downs. No home ever kept him for more than a few months at a time before he was shuffled into a different one with new rules and new routines. He was never removed for behavioral issues like some of the other kids he homed with, though. The new families just couldn’t ever handle such a sickly little boy for very long. Foster parents would often grow weary of the frequent hospital visits and countless trips to the doctor’s office. They couldn’t keep up with the heaps of medications he was on at any given point. Eventually, they even got tired of losing so much time at work to take care of him.

Shortly after starting kindergarten, James remembers he had been diagnosed with Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome. It sounds gross, he knows, and it is. There’s nothing fun or pleasant about sudden and unexpected bouts of nausea and puking, especially when you don’t know how long it’ll last. His episodes throughout childhood could go anywhere from a few hours to a few days at a time.

He’s somewhat grateful for it now, though. If he hadn’t been so sick, he never would’ve met Shuri and T’Challa.

After a particularly rough episode at the age of fifteen, James walked himself into the emergency room. Almost on cue, he ralphed just inside the entrance. Blood and bile splattered across the tile, and all he could do was give the nurse an apologetic look as he wiped his mouth and chin with his sleeve.

He was admitted immediately.

A kind man with gentle eyes and a collected demeanor was his doctor during that visit. He did everything under the sun to help James through the remainder of the attack, and James would forever be grateful to fate for putting him in Dr. T’Chaka’s path.

When he found out that James was in-between foster homes (hence coming in alone), he immediately put a call in to CPS. A week later, James was placed with the family. A month after that, he was officially adopted. He never moved to another home again.

That was when he learned to cook. Certain foods tend to exacerbate his condition, so he couldn’t always enjoy the magnificent meals Ramonda cooked when he first arrived. He’d settle for a bowl of cereal most nights, and that broke Ramonda’s heart. She admitted that she couldn’t bear the sadness in his pretty blue eyes any longer and invited him to start helping her make dinner. Together, they worked to determine what ingredients they could and couldn’t use to create the best possible meals. James realized that he genuinely enjoyed the process of creating new concoctions and watching the reactions.

T’Chaka’s ambition and thoughtfulness gave him the family he longed for.

Ramonda’s affection and compassion inspired him to become a chef.

*****

“And approximately how long have you been hearing these voices, Mr. Barnes?”

This is the fifth therapist he’s sought out in nearly as many months. None of them have been any type of decisive about a diagnosis, and all of them have been far too eager to dismiss him as a complete and utter loon. But James isn’t crazy. He knows he isn’t crazy. He also knows, however, that hearing voices that don’t belong to him is not normal.

_Of course you’re not crazy, sweet boy. You’re special._

Okay, so maybe he _is_ crazy, but that’s what he’s here to find out.

James rakes a hand through his dark hair and replies with a grimace, “As long as I can remember.”

He refuses make eye contact with Dr. Stark. The expression of harsh judgment that he’s bound to be wearing isn’t something James feels the need to subject himself to at the moment. Instead, he finds an interest in the aglet on his shoelace as his hands fidget in the pockets of his jacket.

“Okay, and what can you tell me about them?” Dr. Stark’s voice is mellow and even. It sounds like he’s genuinely interested in what James has to say.

That’s a first. Maybe he owes Shuri a thank you for the referral.

The dam that is his wall breaks, and he explains everything to Stark in as much detail as he can. He explains how the most dominant voice is a male who’s fluent in English, how the other two are women, but neither speaks English, nor do they speak Xhosa like him. He explains how he’s narrowed one down to a Spanish speaking country while the other is certainly Russian. He explains how he doesn’t have any working comprehension of either language to even the slightest extent, but he always understands what they say to him.

And they’re never negative. It’s not like some people who hear voices telling them to do awful things. His voices are reassuring and benign. They encourage him, praise him. They’ve been there through his lowest moments, lifting him, cheering him on.

“And they’re so sweet sometimes, even when I can’t seem to be kind to myself. Some days, I’m not so sure I even want them to go away.”

“Frankly, I don’t think we need to pursue treatment, then.”

For the first time since sitting down, James looks at Stark. He’s dumbstruck. Awe floats through his bones as he digs through every word he knows to string together a fitting response. He has so many questions, but not a single one can find its way to his tongue.

Stark continues, “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you, Mr. Barnes. I think the voices are a coping mechanism. From what you’ve told me, you haven’t always had it easy. These voices, what- or whoever they may be, have helped you through things that would completely destroy weaker individuals. It would be grossly irresponsible and professionally negligent for me to attempt to strip you of your best method of managing stress and anxiety when it’s not doing you any harm; especially when you’re not entirely sure if you _want_ it to stop.”

“So, you don’t think I’m crazy?” Those are the only words James can muster, but it’s an answer he desperately needs.

Dr. Stark shakes his head with a soft smile and says, “No, James. I don’t think you’re crazy.”

He lets out a sigh of relief as a wave of calm washes over him.

“You have no idea how good it is to hear that, doc.”

“Actually, I do,” Stark responds. “But I think that’s a conversation for our next visit. It looks like we’re just about out of time.”

James nods and stands. He thanks his new therapist for his time and gives him a firm handshake before grabbing his backpack. As he’s slinging it over his shoulder, Dr. Stark reminds him to schedule his next appointment with Ms. Potts on his way out. Again, he nods.

He finds he’s actually looking forward to his next trip. It’s almost overwhelming how much better he feels about himself right now. The smile on his face isn’t waning any time soon.

He _knew_ he wasn’t crazy. Whether it’s normal or not, he decides definitively that he doesn’t want them to go away. James supposes he knew that before hand, but he’s absolutely certain now. He’s grateful for them. He wouldn’t know what to do without them.

_And we’re so incredibly grateful for you._

*****

Jesus H. Christ, what did he eat?

James has been hunched over a mop bucket in the back room for over an hour now. The waves of nausea slam into him over and over like a hurricane, and his stomach turns like the eye of the storm. He barely has a moment to catch his breath before the next bout of bile spills from his lips, dredging up halfway dissolved pieces of his dinner with it.

As always, he had been incredibly careful about what he cooked; meticulous, even. Each ingredient was carefully selected to ensure that he would be able to keep his food down. Not a single thing he included had ever warranted a reaction before, let alone one of this magnitude. He hasn’t had an episode quite this awful since the Diet Coke incident.

Snagging a clean dish towel from the rack beside him, James begins to wipe droplets of sweat from his forehead. Odd that he’s perspiring, given how cold he feels. His whole being trembles as if he’s encased in ice, but his skin is hot to the touch.

Tears prick the corners of his eyes as his stomach heaves again. He squeezes them shut as he feels the bile rising, and as soon as it hits his tongue, he swears he sees something in the darkness behind his eyelids.

He swears he sees a man, one he’s never met. He looks so familiar, though, and he’s so god damn beautiful, and James sees him reaching out…

Stomach acid slops into the bucket, and the image disappears as his eyes fly wide open. He gasps for air before the next surge hits. It stings his raw throat like swallowing a thousand fish hooks, but he keeps trying.

The edges of his vision start to spot, and his head spins like a Tilt-A-Whirl. He’s feverish, degrees climbing higher and higher by the second. His racing heart pounds against his rib cage like it’s trying to escape. Another fresh wave of nausea, another mouthful of his stomach contents, and a hint of something new. Something with a metallic tinge.

It’s blood.

He takes it all back. An episode this bad hasn’t happened since he was a teenager.

It’s so hard to keep his eyes open when everything is topsy turvy, so he doesn’t anymore. He lets his eyes fall closed again, praying to whatever god may exist that the man will be there still.

He is, and he’s just as beautiful.

Before everything goes black, before he completely loses consciousness, James swears he hears the man’s voice in his ear. It’s like a lullaby, luring him into the darkness.

_Time to wake up, my darling. Time to remember._

*****

T’Challa paces anxiously, chewing at the skin around his fingernails. Shuri sits stationary, watching patiently as Dr. Banner, a friend of their father’s, checks James’ vitals. He’s been unconscious for quite some time now, never mind how long he was out before T’Challa found him. That conundrum has her brother particularly twisted up at the moment, evidenced by the blood drying around his cuticles.

She feels a twinge in her chest at the troubled state he’s in. His eyes are red-rimmed and watery, and he keeps sniffling like he’s trying to keep his composure. They’ve been here for hours, and T’Challa hasn’t once stopped fidgeting. Focus eludes him at the moment, except for as it concerns James.

It’s hard for her to see him like this, honestly. He’s so raw and vulnerable, like his only weakness is the ones he loves. She’s grown rather fond of T’Challa over the years for exactly that reason, and it saddens her a bit to know that he’s only a temporary fixture in her existence.

But her penchant for human emotions cannot and will not interfere with her mission. The third seal is cracking at this very moment, and she has a front-row seat. As much as she adores her human brother as Shuri, her first priority as Sloth is the safe return of her commanding officer.

Dr. Banner sighs, pulling his stethoscope from his ears. It clacks as he slings it around his neck, drawing the attention of both siblings.

“No, no changes,” he announces preemptively, effectively killing the inevitable question hatching on T’Challa’s tongue. “He’s still unbelievably dehydrated, but his pulse has regulated, and he’s breathing normally. Shouldn’t be much longer until he comes to.”

Shuri glances at the needle sticking out of the back of James’ hand, and her eyes follow the connected tube up to the bag at the other end. It’s half empty and still slowly draining. By her count, this is the third round of fluids that have been administered.

“It’s a miracle he’s alive,” Banner continues, giving T’Challa a sympathetic smile. “We’re lucky you found him when you did.”

With that, the doctor takes his leave, assuring he’d return within the next couple hours to check in. T’Challa follows him out, muttering something about wanting coffee.

Shuri takes the moment to text her dearest cohort, Gluttony, to let him know that James won’t be making his session in the morning.


	5. ghosts in the snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY time to check on you.
> 
> This is where it starts to get fun.

_"When the Lamb broke the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the_

_fourth living creature saying, "Come." I looked, and behold, an ashen horse; and_

_he who sat on it had the name Death; and Hades was following with him. Authority was_

_given to them over a fourth of the earth, to kill with sword and with_

_famine and with pestilence and by the wild beasts of the earth.”_

_\- Revelation 6:7–8_

* * *

_Lima, Peru – Present Day_

You wake in a cold sweat, body bolting upright. Your heart beats furiously against your ribs, and for a brief moment, you are fearful. Fearful of what may be lurking in the shadows of your room. Fearful of what may hide in the darkened corners that the moonlight doesn’t reach.

_“Run, hide. Please. They’re coming.”_

The fear subsides in seconds, and you feel foolish. You’re well aware that the ghosts only exist in your mind. They’re just echoes, but of what, you cannot be certain.

_“You run as far and as fast as you can. I’ll buy you as much time as possible, my love.”_

Still, your skin crawls. Goosebumps raise the hairs on your arms, and you have a fleeting urge to flee. You have to remind yourself that it’s only a dream. None of it is real. You are not in any danger. They’re just echoes, nothing more.

_Silk sheets, a deep shade of crimson. The canopy over the bed is a dark shade of grey, hanging low like storm clouds. An arm is draped across your midsection, but there are hands all over. One rests against your bared thigh, another against your back. Fingertips graze your stomach with the rise and fall of breathing._

Foresight is a wonderful thing. You grab the glass of water off your nightstand and practically chug it. Rivulets run down your chin, dripping to your chest as you take a heaving breath. The empty glass returns to its place, and you’re again left in the silence. But the silence still **echoes** , and it’s near deafening.

_A fire roars to life as the man takes a step back, ensnaring you in his marble-like arms. He tips your chin up with a soft smile, leans down to kiss you delicately, and tells you, “We’ll be back before dawn, little one. This ought to keep you warm in our absence.”_

_His eyes are black when you look into them. No whites, no iris, no pupil, just an inky void. But somehow, you know that stare is filled to the brim with love and adoration._

You’ve been having this dream since you were an adolescent. It’s always the same. There are strange film-like cuts, only revealing bits and pieces of the story. When you were a teenager, you’d longed to see the rest. You wanted to see the whole thing play out. Be that due to an overactive imagination, too many movies, or just the mind of a horny teenager has yet to be determined.

_The woman’s fingers trace your face. She’s gentle with you, like you’re made of glass. She whispers how she loves you so, wishes you would stay just a little longer, hopes you’ll choose to forego your obligations in favor of staying in bed with her._

_“It’s nothing the boys can’t take care of,” she croons. “Those pesky mortals can wait a few more days, hmm?”_

_You hear your voice assure her that you’ll only be gone briefly. A few days at most, as you_ do _still have tasks to complete. She begrudgingly relents, but not without further challenging your resolve._

The clock on your dresser angrily reminds you that it’s 3 am. It glares in bright red, and you glare back. It’ll be impossible for you to fall back asleep. It always is after these dreams. You know better than to try to fool yourself into thinking anything differently.

_The book falls from his hands, landing on the floor with a resounding thump. His colorless eyes are trained on you. He pleads with you to run, but you want to argue it. You know you don’t want to leave him to face whatever this is on his own. You can feel it in your bones that it won’t end well._

_He shoves you away, probably with more force than he intended, but it only renews your determination. You plant your feet firmly, folding your arms over your chest._

_“I’m not leaving you. We stand together.”_

Something doesn’t feel right when you climb out of bed. As you’re pulling the covers back into their rightful place, cautious not to disturb your husband, you’re hit with a cavernous sense of longing and the painful sting of loss. It’s an ache that burrows into your very soul. You’ve never felt so hollow as you do now. Just a shell, full of hurt and grief for something that’s never been real.

It’s just an echo, you tell yourself, an echo of a past life that didn’t really happen.

*****

“Why am I always waking up to an empty bed now?” Stephen murmurs, sidling up behind you. His arms slide smoothly around your waist, coming to rest just above your hips. One of his hands moves possessively over your stomach, taking its place resolutely. The tip of his thumb begins to swirl tight, delicate circles against your t-shirt. You take a sip of your coffee, mulling over the type of answer to give before setting your free hand over his.

Truth be told, the dreams have been more frequent as of late. What used to be once or twice every few months has become twice or thrice a week. They’ve become far more vivid than before, leaving you feeling worse and worse by the day. You are downright exhausted and in desperate need of some actual solid sleep. But you’re not going to tell him that. You’re not going to tell him anything about the dreams or the voices or the awful, awful feelings.

Будь правдивым. Расскажите ему о нас.

_Be truthful. Tell him about us._

“Because, my dear, you snore.” Yeah, _that’s_ the answer you go with. You know he knows he doesn’t, but you say it with a smile, so he doesn’t question it any further.

“Better get used to not sleeping,” he chuckles, pressing a kiss to the bolt of your jaw. “We’re going to be in for lots of sleepless nights if our… evening affairs accomplish anything.”

“Don’t be so pretentious,” you snort, taking another swig of your coffee. “We’re trying to have a baby, Stephen. No need to speak in code.”

“Oh, pardon my manners. I’m so sorry I didn’t want to explicitly describe my sperm while you’re sucking down that hot cup of swill.” His tone is laced with sarcasm, but you can practically hear the smirk tugging on his lips.

“Don’t you have a surgery this morning?” Stephen sighs heavily and kisses the junction of your neck and shoulder.

“Don’t remind me,” he groans. “Spinal fusion. Scheduled for five hours, but judging from the x-rays and the amount of disease in the vertebrae, it’ll be closer to eight or nine.”

You frown inwardly as his arms fall away. The nimble tips of his fingers slide through his perfectly coiffed hair, nails scraping just barely on his scalp.

“Honestly, this one will be tricky. I’ve never done something like this on someone so young.”

Setting your nearly empty mug on the counter, you turn to face him. The look on his gorgeous face damn near breaks your heart, as it always does when he starts to doubt himself this way. He’s sporting an indifferent façade, but you can see a thinly-veiled distress in his eyes. It lurks just beneath his usual veneer of bravado and confidence.

You’ve been with Stephen for over a decade of your life and have known him even longer than that. Thirteen years, to be exact, and nearly a third of that time had been spent meticulously trying to find cracks in the barriers he puts up. After managing to wiggle your way in, you understood fully why he felt he needed to safeguard the other side of him.

Stephen Strange is easily the kindest, most loyal, selfless man you’ve ever met, and he loves with a ferocity even the wildest of animals could never match. He invests himself wholeheartedly and without question. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for someone he allows himself to care for.

But he loathes the feeling of vulnerability. It’s a weakness to him, so he refuses to expose that benevolent heart to someone who doesn’t earn the privilege.

That’s why no one but you sees him like this. Sees through his mask. Actually sees _him_.

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Stephen. You’re an incredible surgeon. Half the planet wishes they had even a fraction of your skill. So you go, and you make that kid’s life better. Dinner and I will be waiting for you when you get home.”

“Have I ever told you how lucky I am to have you?” A gleam of hope returns to his eyes just as a small smile curves up the corners of his mouth. He plants one last kiss on your forehead and snags a banana off the counter just behind you.

“Go. And you have a wonderful day, Dr. Strange.” His grin widens.

“And you as well, Mrs. Strange. I love you.”

You respond in kind and fold your arms across your chest as you watch your scrub-clad husband’s retreating form.

Он не то, что вы думаете. Ты не любишь его.

_He is not what you think. You do not love him._

*****

Прочитайте это.

_Read it._

An envelope on the counter stares at you with anticipation. It’s like it wants to be opened; it wants to share the secrets of its contents.

It’s a plain, simple envelope. Only your first name is messily scribbled across the front. No stamp, no return address. You briefly wonder if it’s an invitation of some sort, but then you realize you’re really not that close with all that many people. Anyone that immediately came to mind would’ve written Stephen’s name, too. If it were from one of his co-workers, they would’ve given it to him directly, not just dropped it on your doorstep without even so much as a courtesy knock. Those thoughts give you hesitance.

But it’s just an envelope, right? Is there really any harm to opening it?

You allow your fingers to run over the sealed flap. The envelope itself feels like papyrus. An odd choice, given the century, but you’re fairly certain the likes are available on Amazon. It seems awfully ostentatious to send something of that quality with such poor regard for the choice of delivery.

Suspicion briefly becomes your guide as you pull at the flap. It lifts with ease. You can’t help but hold your breath as you peel away at the seal.

Inside it a rectangle of thick, sturdy stock paper. The handwriting on the card is an intense juxtaposition to that on the envelope itself. They’re a far cry different. While the envelope appeared haphazard and rushed, the card was written with the utmost care. Now the envelope choice makes a bit more sense.

Прочитайте это.

_Read it._

The nagging little voice in your head is sweet, but undeniably persistent. You give in to her demands if only to silence her for a while.

What’s written on the card makes this solution to this mystery far more elusive. It’s just three names. Three simple names that, in any conceivable context, mean nothing to you.

**James Barnes**

**Natalia Romanova**

**Steven Rogers**

This can’t be meant for you. Yes, your name is on the envelope. Yes, it was placed strategically and specifically on your porch. But there’s no justifiable reason why.

Not even a week later when a second envelope arrives. It’s identical to the first in every way, aside from what’s written on the card. This time, it list cities. Cities in three corners of the world far away from where you’ve called home your entire life.

**Birnin Zana, Wakanda**

**St. Petersburg, Russia**

**Brooklyn, New York**

You can only assume that the cities correlate to the names, but still, you’re at a loss as to _why_. None of this information means anything to you.

You check with Stephen, but he mimics your same sentiment. It’s a blank for him too.

You check with your parents, but they also know nothing of it.

It’s beyond frustrating, and you’re so ready to give up on it. Throw the cards away and never think about them again. Burn them if the fancy strikes. Just get rid of them entirely.

But then that darling obstinate voice rears her head, imploring you to do quite the opposite.

Ищите, малышка. Ты знаешь ответ.

_Search, little one. You know the answer._

*****

Stephen Strange strips his sterile gloves from his hands, rolls them into each other, and tosses them in the trash. It’s been a long, long day in the OR, and he’s ready to go home. Not the home he shares with his beautiful wife, but rather the home in which he doesn’t have to lie to you. There’s something particularly exhausting about being overtly dishonest with his superior. He just needs to continue to remind himself that this is almost over.

On the other hand, that thought is a bit disappointing to him. He finds that, despite the mistruths, he does actually enjoy the time he spends with you. He’s holistically enamored with your strangely humanistic ways, and it’s bizarre for him to see you in such a domestic manner. Bizarre, but not unpleasant. If it weren’t for his pride (oh, the irony), he’d find he’s _almost_ envious of the other Horsemen.

He fears that if he himself could truly feel love in any capacity, this precarious little situation would fare far worse. But he’s a means to an end. He knows that, and he doesn’t allow his predilection for normalcy to interfere. It’s not in his nature to concede another’s wants before his own. He wants things back to the way they were.

Besides, once you’ve dredged up your own memories, he’ll be nothing more than your favorite pawn. It’s simple, but that’s what he craves more than anything.

He peels away his face mask, and it follows his gloves into the bin. The bag rattles again a moment after, to his surprise, and he glances back to find his surgical nurse standing a fair few behind him, her arms folded over her chest.

“They won’t like it, you know,” she snipes. “Your… liaison with Death.”

Annoyed, he rolls his eyes. Envy’s never been one to mind her own damn business, he knows, but that doesn’t make her prodding any less of a nuisance.

“Didn’t peg you for the jealous type, _Wanda_ ,” he grumbles. She huffs out a laugh, cocking an eyebrow.

“No jealousy here, Pride. Don’t confuse caution for covet.”

“You know as well as I do that I’m merely following order.”

Wanda, Envy, whatever one may wish to call her, laughs. She actually outright laughs at him.

“Your orders are the same as mine, Strange. Get close, keep tabs. Nothing in those words implies that it’s acceptable to be lecherous.”

“You know nothing,” he cuts back viciously.

“I’m a trusted friend to her in this life,” dryly, she remarks. “I know more than you think.”

Before Pride has an opportunity to follow up in a more snidely affect, he’s interrupted by the sudden interjection of a third voice. The being does not present itself, but they both know the Keeper’s voice.

“The royal seeks an audience,” it hums. “You’d both do well to not keep him waiting. How impetuous these things are.”

Strange takes a long blink and finds himself standing at the edge of the pit. He can hear the groans of his Father’s pets mixing with the rattle of their chains. The sound twists his lips into a brief smirk as he hears one that’s all too familiar.

It’s a pity that the _real_ Dr. Strange is down there, but Pride doesn’t enjoy sharing, particularly not where intimacy is concerned.

The Keeper is waiting up the path, just inside the gate. His mangled fingers are clinging to a pair of coins, no doubt from Michael. Speaking of whom, the little feathered pest is on the outside, watching like a hawk as Pride approaches, Envy hot on his heels.

Pride can’t help the questioning expression settling into his features upon reaching the gate. To his knowledge, nothing new has occurred that would warrant any sort of update. If there were, he’s sure someone would’ve reached out to either him or Envy by now, but it’s been radio silence for months. While they don’t converse often, that’s one thing she wouldn’t keep from him.

Michael looks mildly flustered, his skin a shade paler than normal. The apples of his cheeks are a wind-whipped shade of pink. His usual steed doesn’t accompany him. In fact, he is entirely alone, it would seem. A tinge of alarm is warranted by the sight of him in such a state of abandon.

He speaks before either of them have the opportunity to inquire. His breathing is ragged and uneven as he stumbles over his words.

“Raphael knows the seals are crumbling. By now, Gabriel is also aware. I must return before they know I’ve gone, but this is going to get nasty in a hurry if we can’t bring them together. Do whatever you must, and do it as quickly as possible. We cannot wait any longer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Six Preview:
> 
> Natalia had almost forgotten how much she hates flying. She hasn’t flown often in her life, but the small handful of times she has, she’s absolutely loathed it. Too many people too close together, the turbulence, the unreasonable wait times, the exorbitant security measures… 
> 
> No wonder she hasn’t bothered to visit Nadia yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Talk to me, y'all. Thoughts, feelings, criticisms... 
> 
> Kudos, comments, and bookmarks are hella appreciated<3


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